


French Kissing

by Miss Roylott (Cress221)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 18:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cress221/pseuds/Miss%20Roylott
Summary: Set during the first year of Watson's marriage to Mary Morstan. Watson makes an unexpected discovery about Holmes's love life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. Part 1

Watson hurried over to Baker Street one day, bringing with him a surprise for Holmes--that is, if Holmes ever could be surprised by anyone at all. Watson nevertheless hoped that he could accomplish that feat with his tickets to a concert this Friday night, and at the very least he might make Holmes feel less neglected as a friend. Ever since Watson had married, he had had little time to come see Holmes lately, and he hoped that a concert would make amends. How wonderful it would be to at last spend some time together again like old bachelors once more. Surely Holmes would be delighted too, that Watson remembered his favourite violinist.

So Watson let himself in with his old key and bounded up the familiar seventeen steps.

Yet he found their old door locked, strangely enough, and once he unlocked it and entered, he found the sitting-room quite empty. No Holmes, nor any indication of where he went. Why lock the door behind him, then, when the street door below had always been sufficient before?

Puzzled and disappointed, Watson thought about leaving a note, but felt that he would rather stay to see Holmes. But how long a wait would it be? Perhaps he ought to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson if she knew when Holmes would return.

Just then, Watson noticed that Holmes's hat-stand still held his coat and hat. Indeed, there was another coat next to it that Watson did not recognise. One of Holmes's new disguises, perhaps? In any case, it seemed that Holmes was not out after all. Perhaps he was in his bedroom changing.

Encouraged, Watson went to Holmes's door. Before he could knock, he heard voices on the other side of the door. Muffled voices, Holmes and someone else it seemed. Whoever could that be? Hesitant to intrude, Watson listened for a moment longer, and now he heard what seemed to be the sound of Holmes laughing. Laughing? Clearly a friend, then, or more likely someone that Holmes was playing some prank on, for the laugh had a rich, rippling quality to it, suggestive of those moments when Holmes indulged in impish behaviour. And then something not really like laughter, something warm and naughty. A sigh, and a soft voice murmuring something in French, Watson thought. Yes, there was Holmes answering in French too, but breathlessly.

How odd. And then--no, that couldn't be--sounds that were clearly kisses, mingled with more laughter, low and seductive. Watson realised abruptly that he was hearing sounds of tumbling in bed, teasing, lovemaking. He would perhaps, after some initial shock, have celebrated such a realisation, if not for the unfortunate fact that he was also realising that the other voice in that bedroom was a man, not a woman. As if the extra coat on the hat-stand should not have told him so already.

Trying to force himself not to believe his ears, Watson started to back away. He should not be here, should get away before hearing anything more, and should certainly re-lock the sitting-room door behind him, lest Mrs. Hudson or the maid wander in on this as well.

Strangely, the intimate sounds seemed all the louder to him now. Holmes laughed again, with evident pleasure, and half moaned, "You wicked, wicked thing!" More kisses.

Watson shuddered in his tracks and wondered who on earth it could be that Holmes would so carelessly throw his career away with. Who could possibly succeed in corrupting and seducing Holmes this way? Against his better judgment, Watson came back and knelt down to peek through the keyhole. Something compelled him to confirm that he was not mistakenly imagining all of this, that Holmes was not just somehow playing a cruel prank on Watson.

So Watson knelt at the door, squinted at the tiny opening, and saw them. Two nude bodies on Holmes's bed, writhing passionately in the sheets, their mouths kissing and licking fingers and lips and ears and any other body part within reach. And yes, it was most definitely a man in Holmes's arms, in the grasp of his slender, strong hand.

Watson jerked back violently from the guilty scene he was witnessing. He stumbled over himself in getting to his feet and rushing back to the sitting-room. He realised that he must have been heard by Holmes, but could not care much about it really. He desperately needed a drink, and he headed over to the tantalus to pour himself a brandy, his hands shaking to a degree that would have been disastrous in any delicate medical procedure.

Presently, Holmes emerged from his bedroom with his dressing-gown hastily thrown on and a look of horror etched on his face. He soon spotted Watson by the tantalus and gasped, his worst fears confirmed. "Watson!"

Watson dropped his glass onto the table and cut his hand on a flying shard. "Ahh!" he gripped the injured hand.

Holmes rushed forward to him, his face anguished. "Watson! I'm sorry, so sorry."

"Holmes, I--" he was embarrassed and unable to face his old friend.

Though his touch made Watson anxious and uneasy, Holmes nevertheless led him by the arm away from the broken glass on the floor and over to the desk where he carefully staunched the wound with Watson's handkerchief. He knew that Watson had something else on his mind besides mere physical pain, of course, and Holmes strove to mend both traumas with his awkward display of remorse. He kept repeating softly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and they both knew he meant two things by that.

Neither of them noticed that someone else had emerged from Holmes's bedroom now--a slim, fair-haired man wearing a dressing-gown that, like the extra coat on the hat-stand, was unfamiliar to Watson. Having disregarded Holmes's injunction to him to stay within, the fellow peeked out curiously to find out what commotion had occurred, and see whoever it was that had apparently discovered them. Noticing the broken glass, he stopped to retrieve a pair of slippers for himself and then silently observed Holmes and Watson from afar.

Holmes sat there with Watson on the floor, looking uncharacteristically apologetic and distressed. With anyone else besides Watson, surely, Holmes would be more concerned with preventing a disastrous public scandal, but with Watson, it was sympathetic care-taking that came first. "You're all right, aren't you? Here."

"You don't have to--" Watson still protested.

"No, let me, please," he insisted, still kneeling near to him. When the blood stopped flowing, he also gingerly cleaned and bandaged the cut.

Averting his eyes from Holmes, Watson shook his head guiltily. "I--I shouldn't have come today. I'm sorry, I--"

"No, Watson, don't blame yourself. I should not have been so culpably lax in my precautions. Believe me, I never wanted you to know. Never meant to give you such a shock."

"Holmes, I just--I didn't know." He blinked at Holmes with uncertainty about what he should feel, in light of his discovery. His dearest friend, the man he had trusted his life to and spent so many years with, was someone he did not really know after all. Holmes, still wearing only his dressing-gown even now, had just been in bed with another man. Watson had never imagined that Holmes could be capable of such things, and he could not understand it.

Watson swallowed and reproached himself again, "I--I shouldn't unlock doors that have been locked, that's all. I don't live here anymore. Why do I keep the key?"

"Watson," Holmes shook his head, searching for words to say.

At that moment, Holmes's fair-haired consort stepped forward to them and cleared his throat, startling them both. They turned around and saw him go to the sitting-room door and re-lock it, remarking something in French that Watson couldn't quite catch. Something like, "Lest you forget."

Watson became immediately uncomfortable in the presence of Holmes's lover, and he wanted to get up and leave for his home, but Holmes held onto him urgently. "Please, no. Let me explain."

Watson bit his lip unhappily.

Oblivious to the tension in the room, Holmes's lover strolled casually nearer, asking in his beautifully accented French, "Shall you not introduce me to your friend, Holmes? Your dear Dr. Watson, is he not?"

"Emile!" Holmes admonished him, also in French. "Go back to the room."

"Why should I? He knows of us now."

Then they exchanged argumentative French too fast for Watson too follow.

"Please, Holmes," he interrupted them, "I should go now."

Holmes turned back and held onto Watson. "Please, wait. Not yet."

"Holmes," he wished desperately to withdraw somewhere, to pretend that he had not seen or heard anything at all here.

"Watson, just--just listen to me," he held onto both of Watson's hands and spoke humbly. "If you can, after this, still think of me as your friend at all, please know that you are welcome and safe here at any time. We have only come here lately because your marriage has kept you so long away, and I foolishly did not expect you to drop by. But I promise you I shall not bring him here again, and you can come again without fear of another such incident." He squeezed Watson's hands reassuringly. "This is your home too, Watson. It always will be."

Emile raised an eyebrow at this heartfelt declaration, and he folded his arms, taking a seat where he could watch Holmes's intriguing behaviour with Watson.

Watson met Holmes's eyes hesitantly, and he ventured a question. "You--you have been with him long?"

Holmes nodded. "A number of years."

"I never suspected."

"I never intended you to." Then he swallowed and addressed another concern. "Tell me, do I disgust you now? Am I no longer worthy of your respect? Your admiration?"

Watson frowned. "I--I am not sure what to think or feel at the moment. I am still just trying to believe that it's true. (Although, I'd rather it was not true.) You have never seemed to want anything... sexual at all. It seems out of character for you."

"In a way, it is," Holmes agreed. "But there is also the side of me that cheerfully breaks the law, that rebels from stagnation, that delights in trespasses on propriety. You have seen that side of me often enough, surely?"

Watson nodded, reflecting on the subtle signs and clues that he should have seen before. He shrugged and laughed mirthlessly. "You know, I--" he explained lamely, "I only came today because I wanted to ask you to the concert this Friday."

Holmes blinked. "Did you?"

"I had tickets." He drew the pair from his pocket and shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

Holmes was touched, but regretful. "Actually, I had planned to attend with... Emile."

"Of course," Watson murmured. He sat back from Holmes and stared down at the floor, lost in thought.

Emile broke into the silence anew, speaking to Holmes again in French. "This is your Dr. Watson, then?"

"Yes, yes," Holmes sighed wearily, as if he had a headache.

"And for him, you have feelings? You love him, no?"

Both Holmes and Watson turned around at that remark.

"Why, surely it is evident? You have such concern for him, you grasp his hands and plead for his forgiveness. It is like a confession to a lover."

Holmes was starting to be angry. "Emile, do not frighten him with your wild speculations."

"Speculations? It is true. Very clear."

"It is not, Emile! Why you would even say this, I--!" He turned to Watson and quickly assured in English, "Do not pay attention to him. I have never had any intentions toward you but friendship, my dear Watson. You know that. You can trust me entirely."

Watson continued to be pale, as he contemplated whether it might be true. Whether, in all these years, Holmes had not only been keeping a secret lover, but had been in love with Watson as well. And all his touches, and all their time together, and all those late nights spent on cases...

Holmes prompted anxiously, "Watson, please, do you not believe me at all?"

Watson swallowed and nodded at last. "Of course, Holmes. I trust you." After all these years of Holmes's honourable behaviour, he could not really believe it. If Holmes truly harboured any "love" of that sort for him, he had had ample opportunity to reprehensibly take advantage of their time together long ago, but he had not done so. It could not be true, then.

Holmes smiled with relief to see that Watson did not doubt him. "See, you wrongly misinterpret us, Emile."

The Frenchman shrugged, but was not convinced. "As you like." He shook his head as though he pitied them. "You English. Your English laws and your terror of scandal," he tsked. "Only makes a blackmailer more happy and yourselves more miserable." He rose and walked over to the tantalus once more. Ignoring the broken glass all around him, he poured himself a drink. "You are not so Bohemian as I thought, Holmes."

Holmes ignored the criticism and helped Watson to his feet. "I must clean up. Are you--are you going home?"

"Yes, I must." Watson looked uncomfortable.

"You will come again, some other time?" Holmes implored.

"Yes. Another time." He glanced a final time at both Holmes and his lover, standing there in their dressing-gowns, and then hurriedly departed with averted eyes.

* * *

Watson did return to Baker Street after about a fortnight, deciding finally that he must face Holmes again. As promised, Holmes was there alone and was glad to greet Watson at last. He looked like his normal old self, but Watson distressingly found that he could easily remember the sight of Holmes wearing nothing but his dressing-gown, and he was unsure how to behave with him.

Perhaps he should not have come, should not sanction Holmes's guilty secret by accepting it? Certainly Watson would not dream of betraying Holmes to the police or publishing such a damaging scandal to the public, but did that mean he should feel obligated to still treat Holmes as his friend? Did that mean he should ignore the memory of what he had glimpsed of their bedroom activities?

Holmes invited Watson to sit in the armchair opposite him, but said nothing further, knowing that Watson must struggle with his turmoil of emotion and morals.

Watson finally broke the silence. "Where--where is he?"

"At his villa. He has a place in London."

Watson hesitated. "Do you still see him?"

Holmes weighed his words, then decided to be firm. "Yes, as I always do. I cannot change my habits for you, Watson."

"Of course not," Watson grimaced, recalling another habit he had unsuccessfully tried to dissuade Holmes from. "But he doesn't come here?"

"No, of course not," Holmes assured. "It was a mistake for me to bring him in the first place. My careless indolence about my precautions, ever since you married and left. We have gone back to what works best."

"I see." It was all that he said for several moments.

Holmes searched for something comforting to say. "He was never in your room. Never near your things. He was not some kind of replacement for you, Watson, as I told you. He is my helpful distraction, my escape from the dullness of existence. You are my dear friend."

Watson nodded, glancing down at the faded cut upon his hand. He finally changed the subject. "Have you had any interesting cases?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A tantalus is a Victorian drinking accessory for storing and locking up your alcohol. It is a stand which holds the glass decanters, but doesn't let you have access to the decanters until you release them from the lock. Not fully enclosed like a liquor cabinet, it is sometimes used just for display rather than for security. I picture the tantalus sitting on the sideboard along with glasses and a gasogene.  
2\. It is assumed that because Holmes had a French grandmother, he is fluent in both French and English. Being well-educated, Watson also understands the lingua franca (when not spoken too fast) but he does not speak it well himself. Similarly, the international Emile knows English but cannot (or would prefer not to) speak English if he can communicate in his native tongue instead. Basically, they all understand each other, whichever language they are speaking, and all their conversation is reported in English. Victorians probably would have left the French dialogue in French and just assumed you knew its translation.


	2. Part 2

So Watson found himself condoning Holmes's relationship after all. He continued to visit, and even accompanied Holmes on his cases once more. On the nights that Watson came only to find their rooms empty, he knew that Holmes had an assignation at Emile's villa because Holmes would leave a note at his desk saying, "Thank you for your patience. Out until --" Any other disappearance for a case or such, Holmes would not note.

Watson sometimes waited for Holmes then, sitting by the fire and trying not to think about where Holmes was. Yet he found himself imagining it against his will. Holmes in bed with Emile, doing who knew what wicked and sinful things not just willingly but with a laughter and pleasure that Watson could not understand. Sometimes Watson would also recall Emile's words, accusing Holmes of loving Watson. There had been no jealousy in his accusation, only an amused fascination it seemed. Watson wondered if Emile still insisted on not believing Holmes's protestations even now; if so, it must be a difficult relationship.

One night Watson waited at Baker Street for Holmes, who was half an hour late according to the time he had indicated on his note. He probably should not have stayed so long, but Watson could not force himself to be rational and go. Finally Holmes stumbled in, looking very flushed and quite unlike himself. When he saw Watson, he started somewhat and murmured apologetically, "He kept me rather too distracted to keep track of time."

There was a warmth behind his words, and Watson fancied that he could smell a musky scent of perspiration from Holmes. They must have been rather vigorous tonight. Holmes quickly poured himself a drink at the tantalus and then excused himself to change his clothes in his bedroom.

Watson waited silently in the sitting-room, wondering if he should go. What was so urgent that he had to see Holmes tonight, anyway? Better to let him recover from his exertions and face him in the morning light. He just missed Holmes, that was all. Found himself irritated to know that Holmes's time did not always belong to him anymore. But it had never been that way, apparently. This had been going on for years, and some of those strange disappearances that Holmes had continually made in the past must surely have been trips to see his lover. The thought made Watson shudder with a kind of pain and outrage.

Finally Holmes emerged from his room again, wearing fresh clothes. He also must have taken the opportunity to run a washcloth over his skin, to remove the more obtrusive traces of his activities. Despite knowing Holmes to be cat-like in his cleanliness, Watson imagined that had he not been present, Holmes might well have simply basked in the scent of his passion the way that Watson sometimes basked in being next to Mary in the mornings.

"Watson?" Holmes noticed his unusual silence and frowned, sitting in his armchair opposite to Watson. "Would you--would you rather go?"

Watson took a breath and faced Holmes. He found himself strangely asking, "Do you ever spend all night with him?"

Holmes blinked, surprised at the resumption of a topic that they had not even mentioned for weeks now. He shrugged mildly and replied, "Sometimes. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. After a moment he continued, "You know, the time that I walked in on you, it was the middle of the day, not night."

"Yes," Holmes admitted. "I had grown increasingly careless and reckless in your absence."

"Who is he?"

"Who?" Holmes pursed his lips pensively. "I assume that his full name does not interest you. Emile is a convenient and often amusing Frenchman whom I choose to make my companion. Beyond that, I am not certain what you want me to say."

Watson persisted. "What does he do? How did you meet? Why do you want... such things from him?"

Holmes found Watson's repeated questions puzzling. Why did he wish to continue on a topic that clearly made him uncomfortable? "If you truly wish to know... I can tell you." He paused, but Watson did not change his mind and tell him no, so he reluctantly exhaled and carried on.

"To answer your first question, he is an art dealer from outside of Paris who occasionally has business here in England. We met through a case some years back, in which I needed to investigate the international art trade, so that I could trace the links to the black market that operates beneath and alongside the legitimate one. Of the many art experts I consulted, Emile was rather more accessible, and as I found out once my case ended, quite charming. He enjoyed that we shared some of the same interests in music and art, and so sought me out to continue our entertaining conversations. I soon learned that he was attracted to me not only intellectually, but physically as well, and we came to an arrangement amicable to us both."

"You speak of it like a business transaction."

He sighed impatiently. "Watson, would you rather I describe with intimate detail the passion of our romance and the overtures we made to each other until we consummated our flirtation and, more than that, agreed to extend both the pleasure and the risk by becoming habitual paramours?"

Watson blushed unhappily and could picture again the indecent things he had seen through Holmes's keyhole. He repeated, almost angrily, "Why do you want such things? How can you let him... touch you?"

Offended, Holmes responded coldly, "I am sorry that you find my proclivities so distasteful, but it is really none of your business, Watson, and you would do better to drop the matter."

A logical enough warning, but Watson was not feeling very logical. "I cannot drop the matter! I cannot forget..." He swallowed on his words and jumped to his feet, starting to pace around the room in frustration. "He has been in your bed, in these rooms--the whole place is tainted."

Holmes rose as well. "Tainted! But he was never--" Changing his mind, he shook his head and protested, "I have taken the greatest care for years that my outside life should not trespass here, and the moment that I felt some small weakness, some freedom to live as an independent man doing as he pleases, I am at fault! I am not to have a household of my own as you have in Paddington."

"I never asked you to banish him from here. You volunteered. I would have gladly just not come back at all and left you to your self-destructive vices."

Holmes stepped nearer with his fists clenched, barely keeping his voice below the level of shouting, "Then why did you come back?"

"Why did you volunteer?" he spat back.

"Indeed, it was idiotic for me to succumb to sentimentality about your emotional welfare. I rescind my promise. Give me back your key."

Watson promptly dug into his pocket and detached the key from the chain it occupied with his house keys. He then held it out, and Holmes reached to snatch it from him.

But then, at the contact of their hands, palm against palm, he froze suddenly. Standing there together, both upset and fuming, their hearts were pounding and their breaths strained. Holmes felt stung by the warmth of Watson's hand, and he stepped back a little, his face uncommonly flushed.

Then he looked up and glimpsed the state of Watson's own face. He realised it then, meeting his eyes. He whispered, almost in horror, "Oh God, he was right. I _am_ in love with you."

Watson was not panicked by that admission, nor did he withdraw his hand from Holmes's.

"I never--" Shaking his head, Holmes started to back away, but Watson pulled him near again, grasping both his arms and heedlessly letting the key fall to the floor.

He kissed him. "Holmes," he whispered passionately. Watson drew him close and kissed him as if he had always done so, always wanted to.

They could not help themselves and clung to each other, kissing ever more warmly and fiercely.

Their sitting-room door opened suddenly and Emile entered. He quickly shut and locked the door once he saw them. "You are careless again!" he admonished.

They pulled back from each other and turned to him with embarrassed confusion. "I--we weren't--!" Holmes stammered.

Emile raised his eyebrows, chuckling a little. "What, you would deny what I see with my own eyes? You silly English."

Watson sank upon a chair and swallowed, most distressed about what he had just done. "I--I'm sorry."

Emile smiled at him. "Why do you apologise? I am happy for you both, to see the truth now." He turned to Holmes. "Your repeated denials were growing so tiresome."

Holmes asked him sharply, "Why are you here?"

He smiled. "I wished to convince you to come spend more of the night with me, or perhaps allow me to stay here again. And what surprise do I find? You have another lover waiting for you here."

"Now that's--"

"Not true, not true. As you like," he sighed dismissively.

Holmes objected, "I told you, you should not come here again. You had no right."

"Yes, for the sake of your dear, dear Watson." Emile tsked with disapproval, "If I did not come tonight, who would have found you? Madame Hudson? A client? A policeman?" He smirked playfully, "For someone so concerned with avoiding scandal, you are behaving with reckless abandon--and _love_." Chuckling, he went over to the tantalus and began pouring drinks. "Let us celebrate. You know, doctor," he gestured toward Holmes, "I ask him sometimes that if he does not believe in love, then why does he believe so strongly in you, a shining example of love? He never has an answer."

Holmes was not amused, and frowningly did not accept the drink that Emile offered to him. Watson, however, looking pale and troubled, took the brandy readily to try to steady his nerves. Now he knew the taste of Holmes's hungry mouth, the sound of his half-moaning sigh, and the sight of him wearing nothing more than his dressing-gown many weeks ago. Why, he could imagine himself in bed with Holmes, striving to elicit every groan and halting breath that he had yielded so easily to Emile.

Holmes perched on the arm of the sofa, trying to decide what to do, while Emile stood with both hands full, sipping his drink and gesturing with the one that Holmes had refused. "You English are so gloomy at times," he spoke in his airy, exuberant French. "Why do you both sit there looking so serious? Come, tell me, Watson, is he not the most brilliant kisser? A marvellously rich tobacco flavour, don't you agree?"

Watson could not respond with more than a blush before Holmes spoke sharply in English, "Oh, why don't you get the hell out of here?"

Emile laughed and responded with vehement French curses, none of which he meant apparently, as he seemed to enjoy picking fights with Holmes. He even had the impudence to suggest that Holmes make it up to him with another round of "those naughty things we did tonight."

Holmes could not help from blushing himself then. He cleared his throat and softly rebuked in French, "Don't you dare mention those things in front of him."

Emile smiled, glancing at Watson with arched eyebrows. "Oh, he has such innocent ears does he? Such an unsullied imagination?"

Holmes caught hold of Emile and covered his insolent mouth with his hand to prevent more intimate details from escaping. The muffled Frenchman playfully bit him and fought him off with amusement, spilling his drinks upon the both of them in the process. Holmes growled irritably and splashed what remained of his drink into Emile's face.

Putting down his glass, Watson felt a pang of jealousy to witness them together like this. Why did he think he could be with Holmes, when Holmes had long ago thrown him over for Emile? Not that he had known of course, but it stung.

Holmes pulled away from Emile's grasp as soon as he saw Watson get up and turn to leave. "No, Watson, please don't go."

"How can I stay? You're with him."

"But I don't--" the word choked in his throat, "--love him. Not as I love you." He whispered the last sentence faintly and with a frantic urgency in his eyes.

Emile finished drying his face with his handkerchief and came over to them, shrugging. "And I am certainly willing to accommodate you in our affair, if that is what you fear."

They both turned to him bewilderedly. "Accommodate?" Watson asked, blinking.

"Certainly," he replied with a grandiose generosity. Then he looked with surprise at the grimace that he observed on Holmes's face. "What? You would end us for him? I discover the truth for you both, and yet I am not allowed to taste of fruits of my assistance? Well, of all the selfishness--!"

Holmes shook his head sternly, holding onto Watson's hand. "He is not a object to be shared and passed around."

"Not to be shared!" Emile scoffed. "Why, you are already sharing him with his wife!"

Watson suddenly let go of Holmes's hand, no longer finding his grasp comforting. He turned pale at remembering his wife and went to sit down again, putting his head in his hands and murmuring to himself with realisation, "Oh God, Mary!"

Holmes nearly struck Emile, but restrained himself. He settled instead for knocking down a chair and seething in his sharp French again, "You! Sometimes I don't know why I stand you, Emile."

Emile for once bit back his tongue on a cheeky retort and looked concerned at Watson's turmoil. "What is the matter?" he asked Holmes. "Does he love his wife?"

Holmes jabbed him with an elbow, and then knelt down near Watson. "Watson?" he spoke quietly. "I am sorry, for everything. If you--"

Watson interrupted him, brushing Holmes's shoulder and remembering how he had grasped it when kissing Holmes so ardently. He furrowed his brow. "You know, I was actually asking myself just that--do I love my wife?" He winced and was silent.

Holmes stayed near and kissed Watson's hand tenderly, wondering why he had never known enough to reach for him before now, before other commitments came into their lives--first Emile, then Mary. Probably it was wariness of love, or fear of rejection, or disbelief that someone like Watson could move him so, stir such emotions from him.

Watson broke the silence abruptly. "Talk to me," he began softly, "tell me in French..."

Holmes peered up into his eyes while he hesitated.

"Tell me how you love me."

Holmes did, reaching to stroke his face and hair as he confessed in the beautiful tones, "I love you, my dear, dear Watson. I cherish you, more than I can help myself."

Watson smiled bittersweetly at these words, and held onto Holmes's caressing hand. Pulling him close and kissing Holmes impulsively again, he replied with inelegant English, "I think I love you too." But in the next moment, Watson let go and rose from his chair, speaking sadly but firmly, "I should go now."

Holmes stood also, but did not protest, as he knew it would do no good. Watson went to get his coat, and then remembering it, he picked up the key that he had dropped on the floor earlier and looked at it in the palm of his hand. He placed it in his pocket, murmuring to Holmes, "I'll come back." Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

Emile had watched this performance with his arms crossed, and he spoke now with great dissatisfaction. "I do not understand you English. If he loves you, he should remain."

"And to hell with his wife?" Holmes returned to the tantalus and poured himself another drink.

Emile retrieved from the end table the empty glasses whose contents he had spilled. "I do not mean that. Surely some arrangement can be made for her? There are households enough in which the spouses lead separate lives."

"This is not an expedient household such as you are used to. This is Watson, and his wife."

"I see. He is a complete romantic, then? An interesting contrast to your cynicism, and my pragmatism."

"Indeed." Holmes gulped down the last swallow of his brandy and frowned to himself, lost in thought.

Emile stroked his shoulder and leaned near to him. "And you, my dear," he whispered coaxingly, "Do you need me to stay tonight?"

"I'd rather you not."

"Why? Because you are thinking of him?" He smiled. "Are you becoming romantic as well?"

Holmes shrugged him off. "Emile, you have many charms, but you take for granted that I would welcome your intrusion into my private thoughts."

"Such intrusion you have only permitted your doctor." He shrugged, and withdrew. "Very well, I shall go. Though I wonder how you shall sleep tonight." He strolled to the door, then turned back for a moment. "You still have your key to my villa."

Holmes did not respond, and Emile left at last.


	3. Part 3

It was some days later that Watson returned to Baker Street. Holmes sat alone contemplating a letter that he had received from a would-be client and feeling a pang of regret that he could not go call upon Watson and ask him to join him. Things simply could not remain the way they were before. He wondered when he would go return Emile's key. If he would return it. Such was the weakness of the flesh, he supposed, needing comforts and routine.

When Watson entered, Holmes looked up briefly and then remarked listlessly, glancing back to the letter, "The night is warm for this time of year, is it not?"

Watson came nearer, having locked the door. "I know."

"Of course, warm is a relative term, since--"

He took the letter from him and tossed it away. "I said, I know." Watson sat before him and waited for Holmes to meet his eyes questioningly. "I know now, that I love you." He watched for Holmes to react but found nothing there. "I know what that silly Emile meant when he said that you love me. And what you meant when you said it." He reached for Holmes's hand and squeezed it. "I have been such a fool."

Holmes still made every effort to remain impassive, staring at the hand that grasped his. "This is not of any use."

"No," he answered, but held on anyway.

"What do you want, then?"

"What I never realised I wanted."

Holmes did not move, nor speak, as Watson leaned near to him slowly and breathed against his neck, feeling the heat between them, skin to skin. "Oh, I could stay here always," he sighed.

Holmes warned softly, "We shall be caught."

"How did you never get caught with Emile?"

He shrugged. "His place. Precautions."

"You said you had small refuges, all over London," he whispered.

Holmes frowned. "For my disguises--"

"For undressing. Changing. Yourself. Myself." He stole a touch under Holmes's ear, whispering even more softly, "I could be someone else with you. My younger self. My freer self." He kissed Holmes's throat as he swallowed. "Just give me your key."

Holmes gave in. "Will you come with me tonight?"

"Why did you think that I came here now?" He guided Holmes's fingers to the place from which he had removed his wedding ring, and kissed his ear, whispering, "I have all night."

Holmes rose with him and without a word more they departed downstairs to hail a hansom cab. It dropped them off some time later in a neighbourhood that Watson did not know nor see much of, as Holmes hurried them inside and upstairs to the anonymous flat that he had rented there.

They did not even turn up the gaslight, just locking the door behind them and making their way in the darkness to the slight, cramped bed that Holmes kept for his infrequent overnight visits. Watson did not complain, proceeding to hurriedly discard his clothes at the foot of the bed while Holmes did the same. Skulking about in the darkness like this reminded them of late nights they had sometimes spent during Holmes's cases, waiting to trap some guilty criminal.

Tonight they were the guilty criminals. Kissing and falling to the bed with him, Watson groped blindly in the dark for his body, fumbling in an awkward but eager way. He had touched Holmes before in his capacity as a doctor, but as a lover now, he dared to explore the passion that he had once believed he could not feel in another man's naked flesh. Holmes was more than willing to guide him in mastering this new territory, and in return, his fingers examined every nuance of Watson's war wound.

The darkness seemed to lend to their vocal sounds an illicit, urgent quality. How oddly appropriate that Holmes could remain eloquent and expressive even in grunts and sighs. Their pulses raced now and their breaths came quick and shallow, hardly allowing Holmes opportunity to reassure Watson that all was safe between them, as he knew Emile's infidelity well enough to demand protection from him every time.

So they shook the bed with their shifting weight, sliding their bodies against each other for an achingly sensual friction, and Watson savoured the pleasures of having Holmes's lean, strong frame in his arms. Holmes gave him the indulgence of the top position for a time, but once he grew sure of himself, Holmes rolled them over and firmly reclaimed his control of their lovemaking. Watson gladly surrendered, excited rather than afraid of being at Holmes's mercy.

Their ravenous kisses and actions were mingled with taunting bites and squeezes of each other's sensitive little areas--nipples, toes, navels, and tailbones. A moist perspiration slicked their bodies as they heaved and thrashed for ecstasy, often heedlessly in danger of slipping off the bed altogether.

At last with Watson's shudder, then Holmes's, they finished and collapsed, utterly exhausted. After a silence, Watson stirred again and reached for Holmes, who lay sprawled across his abdomen, toward the side of the bed. Holmes sighed and merely blinked at the touch of his hand.

"I thought," Watson confessed breathlessly, "I thought you were going to have me tonight. Penetrate."

Holmes shook his head. "Not so demanding, for your first time."

"We still have more of the night left. Will you enter me?"

"You want me to?"

He nodded.

Holmes met his eyes, not sure if Watson's expectations were wise yet, but he finally said, "Rest, then." Kissing him, he took a breath and sat up in the bed, reaching for his clothes next.

"Where are you going?"

"Don't get up. I shall be back shortly." He caressed Watson's cheek. "Precautions must be taken not only against our being discovered, but also against the pain I might cause you." Holmes kissed his lips again gently. "Wait here for me." Then he rose and dressed efficiently, slipping toward the door quietly and exiting.

He came back in a while, when the clouds outside had parted enough to allow the moonlight to shine through and somewhat pierce the curtained windows. Watson sat up expectantly when Holmes unlocked the door and watched him return to the bed with towels and a parcel he had obtained from the corner chemist.

Putting these items aside for the moment, they kissed warmly in the dim light, and Watson pulled him close, undressing him impatiently. Soon they resumed their tangling embrace, and Holmes led the way once more in consummating their passion.

"I trust you. I want to," Watson replied to Holmes's lingering doubts.

Positioning Watson carefully and making liberal use of the lubricant he had brought, Holmes advanced cautiously and slowly, both to draw out the pleasure of reawakening their senses, and to allow himself time to properly prepare Watson.

Despite all his care in opening him, Watson nevertheless gasped when the moment came and clenched involuntarily as he entered. Reassuring Watson with a fond kiss, Holmes just pressed steadily against his interior muscle, waiting for it to relax. "Give in to me," he exhaled against Watson's neck.

Watson bit his lip and trembled, not sure of what he should do to comply. Before long, though, his body yielded on its own, and he felt Holmes bury himself deep within, overtake him with a power and force that made his body writhe uncontrollably. Oh, and the heat... Holmes showed him exactly what a man's possession could do for him, reducing him quickly to an incoherent moaning and thrusting back against Holmes's rhythmic plunges. How brave a man Watson was this night.

Then they reached the final climactic ecstasy, wrenching Watson's body every which way before Holmes's withdrawal. Whimpering a bit and blinking, he felt shattered once he was hollow and empty once again. It was a small thing then, a lovely courtesy of warm attentions applied to his still flushed groin, to summon his own finish and make him cry Holmes's name again, faintly now. When he could get his mouth working again, he pulled Holmes to him again and kissed him immensely.

Holmes sighed and then lay his head onto Watson's chest, blinking against the curls of his hair and smelling the musky scent of his sweat. Then he whispered something that he had never thought he would say to anyone, "You must... do the same with me, sometime."

Sated and weary, Watson closed his eyes and dozed off before Holmes had finished cleaning them off with the towels. Holmes settled beside him again in the fading moonlight. Morning was but hours away now, and he knew that at dawn he would need to take Watson home. At least for now, reality could wait.

* * *

So the morning came, finding them still tangled in the sheets together, with the stained and damp towels nearby on the floor. Holmes tossed these into a hamper and said he would see to them later, as he and Watson hurried to wash themselves and dress. Holmes paused to place the tube of lubricant in a discreet drawer near the bed, for future use.

As they were leaving and locking the door after them, Holmes stopped and pressed his key into the palm of Watson's hand. "Your copy," he said quietly, meeting his eyes.

Pocketing the key, Watson dared to kiss him once more.

Holmes cleared his throat and averted his eyes, then dashed with him down the stairs to the street door.

Watson immediately sought a cab for them in the early daylight, but Holmes insisted that they not share one and reminded him to put his wedding ring back on. Then he packed Watson into a cab and sent him home, bidding him farewell before he turned away to find his own hansom. Back in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, as ever, did not remark upon Holmes creeping in at such an early hour, his habits being regular in their irregularity.

Holmes first unlocked his desk to retrieve his spare key to the refuge they had visited, then he sat down to his breakfast at the table, where he noticed a frantic telegram sent by yesterday's would-be client, whose appointment he had neglected so unceremoniously that night. With a rueful face, Holmes wondered whether this precarious thing, this love he had succumbed to, might lead him to often neglect the other priorities of his life. Would his downfall be his irrational, all too human heart? Fingering the key that he had just added to his watch-chain, Holmes sighed and decided that he would gladly accept the risk.

In two days, when he had time after solving the case, Holmes visited Emile's villa once more to return his key to that disreputable residence. The Frenchman had an intuitive suspicion of what had changed between Holmes and Watson, and he smiled amicably enough. "You have done something decisive, then! No more English brooding." He teased, "I wonder, though, whether you have any trouble teaching a beginner like your Dr. Watson. Should you need assistance... No? Ah well, you are not as much fun as you used to be, my dear." He drew Holmes nearer by his buttonhole. "Shall I have a kiss goodbye, then, for old times?"

Holmes consented, tasting the smug and insolent mouth a final time. He then extricated himself from Emile's grasp and prepared to leave the den of iniquity that was Emile's drawing-room. At the door, he turned back and spoke calmly, "Goodbye, Emile. You French bastard."

Emile chuckled warmly. "Goodbye, my dear. You English prick."

So they parted on good terms.

* * *

Watson returned to Baker Street within days, finding Holmes interviewing a client at the moment. He wordlessly took his accustomed place next to Holmes and could sense Holmes's suppressed excitement to see him again. Once they were alone, Watson kissed him ravenously and sighed, "I shall burn for this, but I cannot let you go."

Moved by his charms, Holmes nevertheless reluctantly insisted that they see to the case first, and Watson agreed, on the condition that they eventually end the night at the refuge which they had already made guilty. They both kept their promises that night, and Watson also insisted on being told the exact address at which they spent their torrid nights, swearing that he would keep it a secret.

So Watson spent another instructive night with him, learning to be less awkward and more creative in satisfying their craving for each other. Not that Holmes complained much of his faults while he learned, for he was glad to love and be loved by the man who meant the most to him in all his life. Yet they must be careful of any bruising that could not be easily explained away to Watson's wife as having resulted from Holmes's case. How delicate and bittersweet it was, to be consigned to stolen moments in dark corners.

The next time that they indulged themselves, Watson made the appointment by stopping in at Baker Street and leaving a sealed note for him on his desktop, where Holmes had previously left his notes about his appointments with Emile. Sealed inside the note was Watson's wedding ring, followed by the words, "Now. Don't fail me tonight."

Holmes pocketed the ring and hurried there, worried that his arrival might be so late that Watson would have given up on him. When he unlocked the door and entered, though, he found Watson waiting there in the darkness, already lying in their bed.

Holmes shut and relocked the door. "You have been waiting long?" his voice was hoarse and thick with desire.

Watson nodded and drew a breath, sitting up. "I was afraid you'd not come tonight. That I'd be a fool here, alone."

Holmes stepped nearer to him slowly. "Telegram me, at Baker Street, and it shall reach me, wherever I am. If I have to pay a hundred tips, to every telegraph office, every messenger boy..."

His words trailed off as he at last stood at the bed and beheld the splendidly virile, inviting form that Watson presented to him now, having drawn the covers back to reveal his naked flesh. Holmes descended upon him eagerly and took him with a groaning delight. Watson yelped at the minimal preparation he was given this time, but withstood the pain until the pleasure overwhelmed it. He also hastened with more practised hands to fully undress Holmes and have the rapturous joy of his body in return. He had begun to learn that he could sometimes make Holmes yelp too, for varied reasons. They behaved so very differently from their daylight selves.

The morning after, they settled together what code words they would use in their telegrams, and Watson accompanied Holmes as he made arrangements at the telegraph offices he frequented in town. Today, at least, Watson could spare some of his day to remain with Holmes a while.

So their illicit affair went on day after day, conducted discreetly to leave no evidence at Baker Street lest a Scotland Yard inspector drop by, or heaven forbid, Watson's wife begin to suspect that he spent too much time visiting Holmes and less time sharing their own bed at home.

In a way, Holmes's Bohemian morals had corrupted Watson into this vice, yet it was equally true that Watson's romanticism had corrupted Holmes, turning his prior use of deviant sex for occasional entertainment into sex as an essential element to his life. An actual need for emotional connection, for feeling that Watson still belonged to him despite his marriage. He indulged now with a ferocity and regularity that far outweighed his previous affair. So they shared a mutual guilt in this wicked thing they had begun.

* * *

"Give in to me," Watson hissed.

Holmes drew a ragged breath. "I don't think that I can."

"Please. You cannot deny me now."

Holmes nevertheless pushed away Watson's coaxing embrace, fumbling in the darkness for the door. He opened it and stumbled out, while Watson remained inside the wardrobe, sulking and catching his breath.

Holmes straightened his disordered clothes before his mirror and tried to steady his voice again. "Another time, Watson. You know that my cases must come first."

"I'm jealous of them." Watson stepped down from Holmes's wardrobe at last and came towards him. "More than I was of Emile, I think. If you ever once devoted that much energy to me, spent fifteen hours a day, days at a time..."

Holmes shook his head. "You know you cannot spare that much time from your practice, nor your wife. Best not to get our expectations up." He gasped as Watson slid his arms possessively around his waist and kissed fondly at his neck. "Watson..." He tried to get up the will to push Watson away again.

Watson sighed into his ear, "You don't know what it's like, going constantly unsatisfied. Having to curb my tongue, fight my wandering mind, pretend all the time that she is you..."

Holmes extricated himself from Watson's grasp. "Do you think it's any easier, being alone here?"

Watson conceded his point, but pled, "One kiss, at least?"

He consented, and they kissed one burning, endless kiss. Holmes finally stopped and sucked the edges of Watson's warm lips, whispering, "One o'clock tonight, you wearing nothing but your stethoscope."

He nodded, removing his wedding ring and tucking it into Holmes's waistcoat pocket. "Be on time."

"I could say the same for you." He hurried out the door to resume his case.  
The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In "The Adventure of Black Peter", Watson mentions that Holmes has "at least five small refuges" located throughout London, which Holmes uses for changing into and out of his disguises whenever he's playing various roles, such as Captain Basil. Presumably he might also temporarily live in them if necessary for establishing his role.


End file.
